Fluorescent Adolescent
by InternalLackadaisical
Summary: Mister Kirkland starts a new school year, with new students. He finds it peculiar to have a class that contains two students with the same name; Alfred F. Jones, and Al L. Jones. Both loathe each other something furious, but, then again, this isn't about Alfred and Al; it's about Al and Mister Kirkland, who find batshit crazy love after Al gave his 'Teach' a blowjob. What bullshit.


Hello! I'm SO SORRY FOR NOT POSTING ANYTHING IN SO LONG I HAVEN'T HAD WIFI AND I STILL DONT HAVE WIFI

im getting wifi on friday, i was supposed to get it today but the place ditched us out ahaha

SO! I HAVE BEEN WORKING ON THIS FOR A V LONG TIME AND ITS V LONG AN E

so i'll post all of this, and then when the rest is finished i'll post it. its a one shot i swear a very long oneshot

okay here you go

* * *

It's the first day of school, Arthur knows. He can't help but get excited when the time comes; when the students that he sees in supermarkets and grocery stores, helping their parents and family members buy things for them, trudge around in their rebellious, adolescent bodies, as they realize that it's _that time_ again. He simply is invigorated. Sure, he hates the start of school just as much as his students do, but… Something reminds him of his own school years, back in Oxford and the years before. God, he misses going to school himself, learning, all that ruckus. What a privilege these children have, being able to go to school with such ease…

Arthur himself has an adoration for school. It's his job, and he has always been a scholar. You are supposed to like your job, and he does. He loves it. He's well acquainted with most of the teachers, from the aristocratic Mr. Bonnefoy in the French department (what can Arthur say? The man knows his 'frog', and is damn proud of it) to his friend Ms. Williams in the English department alongside Arthur. The pay is just perfect for him, and he loves to teach, and, well, school is _great!_ But something about this school year is going to be different, and Arthur had stayed up until eleven pondering the peculiar feeling.

He wakes up at four. He didn't get much sleep anyways. The shower is hot and soothing on his tensed-with-excitement shoulders, and he's in and out quickly. He takes this time to admire the quietness of his apartment. After university, Arthur flew straight out of England and was then an American man, living in dreary Washington. He secretly loves the rain, and in Olympia, there sure is a lot of it! His apartment is constantly quiet; he has a radio and a television, but he much prefers reading from his extensive selection of novels and biographies. Once he emerges from the shower, he dries quickly, moving to his bedroom to pick his favorite suit and tie. He straightens the tie in a mirror, shaking his hair out.

Arthur is an older man. His hair is beginning to grey slightly, on his sideburns, but his thick black eyebrows (why they are black, he can't say; his hair is a dank blonde, and neither of his parents had black hair) remain as dark as ever. He has small wrinkles at the crease between his brows, and he has slight back problems, although he blames it on his mattress. His green eyes have paled slightly over the years, becoming naturally distant and withered.

He gives a bright smile at his reflection, and picks up his favorite briefcase, heading out to his rusty old Rolls Royce. It's nearly ancient, and hasn't ever been refurbished, just to Arthurs tastes. There are a lot of things he appreciates, and classic, old cars are definitely one of them. The radio doesn't work anymore, and if it did, it wouldn't pick up any stations that he would like. It doesn't have a CD player, so he wouldn't be able to listen to any of his old discs.

The drive to school is short and sweet. He unlocks the front doors for himself, and relocks them again. He has some final setting up to do in his classroom, and then a few sheets to prepare for his lovely, lovely students.

He finally arrives at his classroom at 6:04.

* * *

At six o'clock, Al wakes up. He wasn't really sleeping. The thoughts of school haunt his mind, quite frankly. He longs for year-long summer, with hot babes in bikinis and nothin' to do. No homework, no early rising (though he does that anyway, he can't really help it), and especially no lousy teachers to suck up to. All he needed in summer was a reason to stay outta the house.

He tiredly slumps against the wall in his messy, dirty shower, sighing at the thought of school. God, he hates school, but at least he's a part of the majority. No one really likes school.

Al washes his hair, jerks off a little, and gets out. Quietly, he shrugs on an old shirt and some jeans, along with faded sneakers and a worn backpack for his shit. It's only seven now, but he leaves the house anyway. Better to be gone when the house is asleep. It don't matter that school don't start until 8:15, he can wait. He's good at waitin'.

He catches sight of his reflection in a nearby puddle, and slows down to stare at it.

His hair matches his eyes, in a strange blend of maroon and crimson. His skin's a strange olive tone, which causes him to look almost Hispanic after the sunny-ish summer is over. Honestly, most of Al is described as one word; strange. He's _strange_. Something 'bout it, though, makes him sort of accepted, and he melts into his classmates like cheese melting onto chips, hiding from the eye. Al runs his tongue along his teeth, feels the spot where his left canine is missin' from a run-in with a few bikers.

He keeps moving.

* * *

Arthurs first class was rather uninteresting. They were all just students, with no redeemable qualities that would make them memorable. They were all ordinary, your regular bunch of students; some were remarkably smart, but only by force; some just did the work and were fine with a B. It wilted Arthurs excitement for the first day, and it slowly lowered over the course of two more periods.

At lunch, Arthur explained his sorrows to Ms. Williams and Mr. Bonnefoy. Ms. Williams gave him a soothing, motherly smile (she was always a motherly type, which made her very popular with the students) and Mr. Bonnefoy just explained that most of the kids thought Arthur was a bit of a prude (he said it very blatantly, as he does with most things, which also makes him very popular among students). Arthur delivered a smack to his best friends head.

His fourth period, though, is a complete turnaround. When he walks to the class after eating, a few students are waiting at the door to get in. One is broad boy with golden hair and blue eyes. He wears a traditional Varsity jacket, and is leaning against the doorframe, a boyish charm enveloping him. He gives the girl he's talking to – a small Japanese girl, who is stammering slightly at this _football star_ that is talking to _her_ – a cheeky grin and stoops up, reaching a hand forward, towards Arthur.

"Mornin', coach. I would like to formally introduce myself." The kid states politely, shocking Arthur. This boy definitely has manners, that's for sure – although he's the type to call all of the faculty 'coach'. "I'm Alfred Jones, and it is certainly an honor to be taking your class." Arthur blinks, then smiles politely. He's never been one for jocks.

"Well, it is certainly a pleasure to have such a well-behaved man in my class." Arthur takes the younger man's hand, and although Alfred is taller than Arthur, a wave of authority washes over the teacher. "Now, let me open this door."

Once the door is open, the blushing lady flees into the class, taking a seat near the front. Alfred eagerly picks a spot in the back, towards a corner. _'Typical'_, Arthur can't help but think. He stands in front of the whiteboard, waiting for every individual who is going to be taking his class to file in. This group looks… Optimistic, he presumes. Maybe a little excited, but he isn't going to get too hopeful. He glances at the clock, and gives a bright smile.

"Good morning, I'm Mister Kirkland. I will be your English teacher this year."

* * *

_'Fuck'_, Al curses. He shouldn't 'a been talking to that girl. She was real sweet n' all, but not exactly what he's lookin' for for a good time. He's late for class. He doesn't care, not really. That's why, although he does move towards the class, his pace is slow. He doesn't wanna go to class, he doesn't wanna go to school. Just a waste a time.

* * *

_'So far, so good'_, Arthur thinks, smiling as he takes roll. Most of his class is made up of good natured kids, and Alfred sits in the back, along with a bulky young man with a Russian accent and an albino. All three adorn letterman jackets in the schools colors. The Asian girl sits in front, with a tired-looking girl with tan skin and tangled black hair, and an Asian boy who Arthur suspects is her brother. Roll runs smoothly, with only one or two kids missing.

As Arthur turns to write a list of school supplies on the board, his eye catches on the classrooms door handle turning slowly, _delicately_. Arthur decides on the way the knobs being twisted _ever_ so slowly that the late child – if that is what is behind the door – will get out of a detention just by the way that their hand is turning the handle as if it's fragile.

Those thoughts are immediately shattered as the door is flung open, and Arthur realizes that it wasn't being opened with delicacy, but with time-consuming _ease_. The boy walks in slowly, taking his time moving to a seat on the outer stretches, near the door itself. Watching the young man gradually slide into his seat, and lean back leisurely, Arthur could feel his irritation rise unexpectedly. He raises an eyebrow at the kid. The new arrival gives a cocky, crooked grin, revealing a missing tooth. This man radiated 'troublemaker'.

Arthur knows that, although he will keep his promise of not giving this student a detention, he _will_ have to talk to him after class.

"Please see me after class, mister…?" Arthur scolds himself for not learning all of his student's names yet. The redheads' lips curve up a little wider, brown – red? – eyes crinkling slightly. Arthur wants to glare, but returns a smile politely. He is almost flabbergasted when a smooth Bronx accent emits from the younger's mouth.

"It's Al, and sure, teach."

* * *

Al is _surprised_. Mr. Kirkland's freakin' insane. Somethin' 'bout him radiated wisdom, n' yet he's wearing a tweed suit! What even _is_ that? Not to mention the accent, y'know; although a lot of his teachers so far were pretty wild, Mr. Kirkland's a _hoot_. Al watches his teacher silently throughout class. The older man is so _invigorating_, for a reason Al can't exactly place yet. Somethin' 'bout the way the guy holds himself, as if he's going to enlighten their lives and make them better people; but his voice was arrogant and blunt and _God_, if Al closed his eyes he could just picture his teacher as a complete douche bag. But…

Al slowly glances around, recognizing faces in order to see who was in this class with him. His eyes catch on blonde, and he's returning the gaze of the asshole who has the same name as him. Alfred Jones. Fuck, that guy is such a _prick_. Al feels a small amount of bile rise in his throat, but he gives a precise smile to the fucker anyways. Gotta maintain the wonderful lifestyle.

Al and Alfred have always known of each other. You can't exactly forget a kid with the same name as you, and Al knows. God, does Al fucking know. Alfred has kind of squashed Al like a nasty bug throughout the years, but it's not like Al really gives a shit. Alfred can go suck his own dick like the conniving little ass he is. While Alfred became a popular jock with his stupid fucking letterman jacket and straight A's and dumb college acceptation letters, Al drifted down, having few friends because he just ain't a people person. He ain't really one for talkin', and when he does, it's always some mumbled, half-assed load of shit. As a senior, he's just stoked to get outta school. He wants to be a mechanic, maybe move around 'til he finds a chick and cools down. Maybe be a supplier.

Until then, he watches Mr. Kirkland dazedly, languidly leaning forward and propping his head on his hand as if he's payin' attention.

* * *

"Now, Alfred-"

"It's _Al_, teach." Al corrected easily, making Arthurs anger spike.

"-_Al_, why were you late?"

"I was talkin' to my previous teach on clarities for our supplies," Al explains easily. Arthur smiles morbidly.

"Lunch was before this period."

"It was?" Al is momentarily surprised, but just gives a smirk and ever so slowly shrugs. "Aw, yeah. Right you are, teach. Ya caught me, I was actually talkin' to a chick."

"Might I ask whom?"

"I dunno. Didn't catch her name. Real pretty purple eyes, good kisser." Arthur raises his lip incredulously.

"Why I never-" He cuts himself off, angrily chastising himself for acting surprised. "You were engaging in promiscuous acts on _school grounds?_"

"Nah, not today, anyways. I was jus' talkin' to her today." He responds, but gives a small wink. "Maybe later."

"Am I going to have to give you a detention slip?" Arthur growls. He's getting tired of this slacking wanker, and wants to just go home now. He's always loved school, but this is… this is a change of air, that's for sure. Al shrugs languorously, leaning forward slightly to be eye to eye with this elder. Arthur squints, and Al gives a shit-eating smirk, making Arthur give in and scowl, just slightly.

"I dunno, teach," Al raises a brow slowly, "_are_ you?"

Arthur grumbles, and finally sighs. "No, it's the first day of school. I don't even think I am _allowed_ to give them out on the first day. But you better watch your back, Mister. I don't tolerate any slacking and bullshit from anyone." Al stands to his full height, rotating towards the door with paced ease. For a slow moving kid, he sure is not stupid.

"Thanks, teach. I'll keep that in mind. See ya tomorrow." He's halfway out the door when Arthur calls out hesitantly.

"Are you related to Mr. Jones? You both have the same first and last name, coincidentally." Al turns back towards the older man, and gives a disapproving glare.

"Do we _look_ anything alike? Havin' the same name as that prick is hard enough, but actually having the honor of being his _relative?_" A small chuckle emits from Al's vocals. "Sorry, man; there's a reason I go by Al. I'd never want anything to do with that shit-stain." He tips an invisible hat – slowly, of course – and is off onto his next class.

Arthur sat in silence for the rest of his prep-period, trying not to curse aloud, trying to figure out why that boy is so goddamned irritating.

* * *

A couple weeks move by. Arthur has rotated from unlocking the door for Alfred first thing after lunch to tolerating the ever-irksome Al. Arthur has began noticing the weird differences between Al and Alfred. Alfred is always polite, and always excited, and always early. He's the perfect student. He knows his vocabulary, and knows his manners, and knows to show his peers and teachers respect. And although it is quite obvious that he is the schools pretty boy, most idolized by the boys and most idolized by the girls, he doesn't notice. In fact, Arthur has seen a few girls confess that they fancied him – along with a few guys, who Arthur won't name – and Alfred blushed madly and laughed it off, telling a polite-if-not-uncomfortable joke.

Al, though, is a polar opposite. He's precise, and he doesn't talk a lot, but when he does, there's _hell_ to pay. He'll cuss, use inappropriate slander, and will ultimately get sent to the principal's office. He is always no less than one minute late, and seems really uncaring about most things. When Arthur asks him something, Al blatantly ignores it, if only to piss Arthur off. While Alfred's smile is happy and genuine, Al's looks more like a grimace, and he frames it with analyzing eyes and a raised eyebrow, like he expects _more_ from Arthur than he gets.

But, he also knows they have similarities. Both have latched onto Arthur; Alfred like a friend and teachers pet, Al like a skeptical partner for a school project. Alfred will greet Arthur in the hallways with a bright grin and wave, and talk to Arthur while the teacher opens the door to their class. Al will just eye the teacher outside of class, maybe give a little chin-acknowledgement if the time is right; but he stays behind after class a little, always slyly mentioning things Arthur had said throughout the class and rephrasing them, turning them into things Arthur doubts. Alfred will make Arthur's day more positive; Al will just make him so irritated sometimes that it's hard to speak.

But, sometimes, Alfred will call Arthur 'Coach', and Arthur gets a small wrinkle in between his brows; and sometimes Al will just give a simple compliment on the days lecture, and it makes Arthur hum quietly while he picks up the mindless garbage that his students leave throughout the day.

Today, though, Arthur feels something is wrong. Throughout class, Al looks… different. He looks determined, and thoughtful, and although he's somehow a B's-and-A's kid (Arthur had looked at his grades one day out of curiosity) who does absolutely nothing in this class, something about him screams _'I want to work hard today'_. After class, he paces slowly up to Arthur's desk. Arthur gives a polite smile, wondering what has gotten a hold on the boy.

"Yo, teach," Al greets suavely, like he does every day, "I gotta know if I can come in today, get some help on the homework? It's insane, I don't get the different writing structures or whatever they are." Arthur nods. Even if the kid is a bit of a troublemaker, Arthur knows that today he's motivated and willing to cooperate, if only to understand his work better.

"Of course, Al," Arthur agrees, "I'm always willing to help a student in distress. But you better go along to your next class, you might be late." Al gives that strange looking grin, and grabs his things, sliding out the door.

* * *

After the first after-school meeting, it begins happening once a week, then three times a week, until Al is coming over every day after school. Arthur realizes that the kid has guts, and is slightly ashamed to have a small sliver a respect for the teen. When he wants something done, he wastes no time in working on it to complete it with such a precision that it leaves Arthur winded. It could be reading a few chapters of the classes current book and taking notes, or retaking a test, or completing a worksheet. Because of this, he gets A's in his classes, Arthur assumes. He also takes his time. When school gets out at three, Al is there, leisurely pulling out a book on Shakespeare and addressing Arthur as 'teach'. Arthur tries to correct him on it, but it just keeps happening, and Arthur eventually gives up.

Arthur usually has to help Al with most of it, so the literature can get 'drilled into his mind', as Al puts it, but when Al gets it or the sheet is a review packet, he works quietly. Arthur barely notices he's there until he looks up and there he is, chewing on his eraser; there he is, looking out the window for inspiration on a poem; there he is, gradually clenching his fists in frustration until he realizes that he's doing that and flings his hands open, as if he was electrocuted for showing physical anger. Arthur finds it all strangely endearing, and chuckles inwardly at the antics.

And then after a few weeks, Al begins_ talking_, words spilling out of his mouth about the pros and cons of the education system, and the government, and about politics, and Arthur is astounded to find that Al had _so many_ good points, and Arthur knows that the young man is impossibly smart beyond his years. His vocabulary doesn't necessarily reflect that, but Arthur somehow finds Al's rebuttals and beliefs more _believable_ when intellectual words flow out followed by cusses and small huffs of disappointment. Arthur finds himself liking Al, and knowing that the kid is very bright.

"How do you _know_ all of this?" Arthur asks incredulously one day. "Do you read newspapers? Are your parents politicians?" Al gives a throaty laugh.

"I just happen to see the truth a lotta the time. 'N my parents..." Al's face blanks, before he shrugs. "They don't really care."

"How could they _not_ care? They're your _parents!_" Arthur exclaims. Al shrugs again.

"They got more important things to do than give a straightforward rats ass about me. They have jobs, they go grocery shopping, they buy me my tofu and sushi; I ain't complanin'."

"Tofu? You're vegetarian?"

"I don't like meat. Grosses me out." He shudders a little. Arthur drops it.

But Arthur begins noticing some things. He asks about them.

"What kind of music do you listen to?"

"Oh, a lil' bit of everything. I really like techno and electronic shit." Al briefly glances up at Arthur, before looking back down at his work. "You?"

"I, er," This is the first time Al has ever asked anything about Arthur. "I like classical things."

"Whoa, dog, like Mozart? Bach?"

"I am not a 'dog', and no, things like… Well, currently I'm going through my old tapes from my younger years. I really enjoy The Rolling Stones, and The Who." Arthur doesn't mention The Sex Pistols, who he really is getting reacquainted with. Al cracks a smile, one that's slowly become more and more normal to Arthur.

"I gotta say, old British punk rock is something I totally see you havin' a thing for."

"Why? Because I'm British?"

"Nah, you just look like you've seen some weird shit, which usually comes from being into some wack ass music." Al closes his book, and languidly rises from his seat, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Honestly, that's why you're one of my favorite teachers, teach. You just look like, well, that you were like _me_ at some point." Al gives his grin, and leaves, with a wave to the astounded Arthur.

* * *

A few days later, Al comes in to find Arthur grading tests. Al sits.

"When you're finished, I need your help with that damned Dickens shit." Arthur nods mutely, trying to hurry. He's found time with the rather mouthy teen to be very needed in his life. Something about the boy makes him think like he hasn't in years. Makes him frustrated, and irritated, and gets him into such a state of annoyance that it's exciting and renewing. Al stares for a moment, before asking,

"Are those the tests we took today?"

"Yes."

"Have you graded mine yet?"

"Right now, coincidentally." Al gets up and leans over, searching for his grade.

"I got a C plus?!" Al whines. Arthur gives an apologetic smile, nodding. "Can I retake this?"

"No, sorry. This was a final."

"No, teach, you don't understand." Al insists. "I need to getta good grade on this. My parents'll freak."

"I thought you said they didn't care?"

"_Please,_ Mr. Kirkland." It's the first time Al's ever used Arthurs real name. "I _need_ you to change the grade."

"I'm sorry, Al. I can't."

"Extra credit? Clean the room? I'll do anything, teach."

"No, Al." Arthur answers firmly. This boy, so persistent and so irritating!

Arthurs desk is an aged wooden one in the back of the room, and Al had been leaning on it, but he now moves in front of Arthur, moving to his knees to look Arthur directly in the eyes without seeming intimidating or more dominant. "_Please._"

"Al…"

"I _need_ you to change the grade on it. I _need_ an A."

"I…" Arthur shakes his head slowly, letting out a pitiful gust of air. "I can't do that. I can't do it for other students, and I most certainly can't do it for you." Arthur looks Al in the eyes; such a clashing color, full of red and brown and fire and passion. He looks momentarily angry, but suddenly hands are at Arthur's belt, the worn leather being unbuckled and pushed aside. Arthur begins questioning immediately. "What are you _doing?_ Why are you-"

But everything clicks, and suddenly, he understands. _'I'll do anything, teach.' 'I need you to change the grade on it.'_ Al is now working on Arthur's zipper, tugging the pants down by the thighs, revealing Arthur's cheap briefs and pale skin. Arthur is completely still; he won't move, he _can't _move, why isn't he _moving?_ Why is he allowing this? This is _unacceptable!_

Al's hands slide gingerly across the waist of Arthur's briefs, and slowly, so _very _slowly, pulls them down, Arthurs dusty blonde hair and-

"Damn, not even a _little_ surprised?" Al mumbles at the sight of the unaffected gents. Arthur remains silent, and Al looks into the elder's eyes, seeing the surprise and shock in the damned green spheres. Keeping the eye contact, Al leans forward, giving the penis a subtle, slow lick. When it perks ever so slightly, Al gives a small bark of laughter, and moves again, putting the tip in his mouth. He gently glides his tongue once more over the tip, and Arthur's eyes close tightly. Why isn't he _stopping_ this? Why is he letting it happen? His hands clench; short, neat nails digging into the fabric covered armrests. Al eases his lips up the sides, hands resting calmingly on his teachers' thighs.

When Al finally, _finally_ reaches the base, Arthur releases a small whisper of a groan, and Al chuckles, the vibrations shooting straight up Arthur's spine, making him become as stiff as a board. Al pats Arthur's leg soothingly, almost as if to say, _'relax, teach. I got this.'_

Soon Arthur is squirming in his chair for release, mind fogged as all he can think about is Al's maroon eyes and flawless olive skin and dark red hair and calloused hands rubbing his hipbones and _God_ why won't the boy go faster, it's going to bloody _kill _him. Quiet whimpers and sighs and moans spill from Arthurs mouth, and when he finally comes it's a long, slow sigh as he slumps back into his chair, Al easily lapping up any leftovers, until Arthur's completely dry. Arthur finally opens his eyes, and sees Al standing in front of him, daintily wiping his mouth for any stray drops. He slowly leans down, closer and closer to Arthur's face. Arthur closes his eyes once more, expecting to feel Al's lips against his and taste himself on the boys tongue, but a voice whispers into his ear, low and gravelly.

"Think about what I just put on the table here, teach." Arthurs eyes snap back open, and as his student backs away, grabs his backpack, and slides out the door, he tries to say something – _anything_ – to repent his inaction; to tell Al that he's going to tell the school board about the completely uncivil act he just committed; to threaten to call his parents; (to ask for more than just foreplay; to ask for much, _much_ more), but he's stunned into silence, mouth dropped, pants down. Completely vulnerable.

He hears a faint laugh outside his room – Al's laugh – and jumps to action, growling as he crosses out the grade on the test and replaces it with an A.

* * *

As Al walks away, he almost feels like hummin'. It's not every day he gets to use his skills like that, especially for something that isn't a repaid debt or money. Yeah, Al ain't exactly proud of it, but he's come to recognize that it's just another ability he can use to his advantage, the same way he can tune any car as far back as the late 1800's, or smooth talk his way out of getting the shit beat outta him.

But as he steps out the school doors with the taste of his teacher still clogging his throat, he rethinks, and begins wondering what Mr. Kirkland's doing at the moment. _What'll he do at school tomorrow? Will he be okay with what he did? How will he react? _Al doesn't have a way to talk to the teach, n' it's the same thing the other way around. Al doesn't wanna be on the teach's bad side; he's one of the only teach's he _likes._

Al's done this lots a times before, but never has he felt nervous, or regretful, or… worried sick. He blows the feelings off, like most of the things he feels, but when he lies down on his old, dirty bed, he thinks a little too much.

He goes to bed late, and almost decides to ditch school, but how Mr. Kirkland'll react makes his mind itch, and he feels a bit eager to see the teach again.

The others around him during the first three periods thought they were off their rockers, watchin' Al twitch and fidget impatiently. They all knew he always moved languorously, and this change in personality was borderline unknown. He ignored them all, callin' them yuppies in his head.

During lunch, he heads out to the back, by the garbage cans, where he meets with Francine.

"Hey, doll." She murmurs smoothly, puffing ringlets from her long cigarette, imported from France by her grandmother. She leans up from the wall, leather jacket crinkling as she pulls her jean miniskirt down, annoyed. Once proper, she drops the cigarette, crushing it under the heel of her boot. She reaches towards him, her arms outstretched. "Going to hug me today?" He shrugs, leaning down and curling her into his tired body. She noticed right from the moment he turned the corner to the smoke pit that something was different, and the hug was enough confirmation that he had changed somehow; he's hugging her. He doesn't like touching anyone, _ever_.

"What's so _different_ today, honey?" She questions curiously.

"Huh?" He responds. He's busy thinkin' 'bout what it'd be like to hug Mr. Kirkland like this. Francine pulls back and looks into his eyes, squinting.

"No fucking way!" She exclaims. "You _like_ someone!"

"Nah," he replies easily, "people disgust me." She snorts, and looks closer.

"Well, something's changed. I can tell. Your eyes got hearts in 'em, boy, and they ain't getting any smaller." He shrugs. He always found her to be a comforting friend. She's almost like a mom, if mom's smoked a pack a day and wore skimpy clothing because they felt good in it. Al almost found it funny – in fact, he actually found it fucking hilarious – that both of her parents spoke fluent French and she knows the language, but her voice is almost a Southern drawl, accompanied with her pale blonde hair and violet eyes that can be as warm as a started car muffler or as cold as his own fathers disapproving gaze. She's his best friend, this bitch.

When she leaned upwards and pressed a kiss to his cheeks, then to his lips, he didn't push her away.

* * *

The bell rings, and Al and Francine split apart. Her red lipstick is smeared slightly on his face, and she pats his cheek appreciatively, before licking her thumb and rubbin' the red away. He smiles easily, and she returns it, patting him on the shoulder.

"Good work, doll." She calls out while walking away. He rolls his eyes.

"You too, Franny." He hears her laugh echo through the parking lot, and he begins walking to the doors as well, regret and shame beginning to sink in. He always did this with Franny, why's he feelin' bad about it now?

When he opens the door to the English class, he expects to give a smile to Mr. Kirkland, who would get all butthurt about how Al was late. He expects to have the teach give him a glance and light up in reds as a blush consumes his face as he remembers that this kid right here is the one that gave him the best blowjob of his life. He expects the teacher to look at him, and look away, completely ignoring Al.

What he doesn't expect whatsoever is the unfamiliar old woman at the front of the room, takin' roll call. He stares stupidly for a moment, and she looks up, raising an eyebrow.

"You're late. What's your name?" She drones nasally. He almost grimaces.

"It's Al."

"Short for Alfred?"

"Yeah." His words are hesitant, and he drifts into his seat, leaning back. He sees the sub write something on the paper in front of her, and zones out immediately. '_Why is Mr. Kirkland gone today? He couldn't be sick, could he?'_ Al lists off different scenarios, but he knows exactly why teach ain't here today.

Al fucked up. Al fucked up, Al fucked up, Al ruined the only friendship he had with a dude at the school. He already starts to curse himself out, calling himself mean, horrible things, things that appeared true if you heard it enough. He knows that, at best, he won't see Mr. Kirkland (To apologize? To set up a ritual of doing this?) until Thanksgiving break is over, in four days.

Alfred gets confused, watching his opposite act almost like, well, _himself_. He sees Al's hands furl and unfurl, he sees Al look around the classroom quickly, like he's looking for something, someone. He's never seen Al act so antsy. He leans over to Ivan.

"Hey, check out Al." The big Russian gives a glance, smiling unbelievingly.

"Da, he is very twitchy. What is it about, hm?"

"I dunno, but I'm asking Gil, if you don't know." Alfred leans the other way, to his left, and the albino gives a grin as he tilts in.

"What's up with Al?" Alfred asks. Gilbert shrugs.

"I know that he was like this in Chemistry, Liz said something about him being on the fritz." Gil explains, mentioning his girlfriend who's in math at the moment. Alfred considers the new information, and shrugs.

"Well, I guess we'll have to get it out of him, then." Alfred grins.

* * *

Al's so lost in thought, he don't notice he's bein' followed, until he's shoved into an alleyway on his walk to work. His doppelganger smiles happily, looking like an angel, if it wasn't for Ivan and Gilbert, who were holding Al against the greasy brick of a long abandoned building.

"C'mon, what'd I do _this_ time?" Al groans. He raises an eyebrow at Alfred. The other lets out a cheerful laugh, as if both of them were just neighbors chatting over a grill.

"Nothing, _nothing!_ I was _just_ wondering…" Alfred's face darkens slightly, smile turning curious, "what's going on?"

"Oh, nothing much, I suppose." Al answers cockily. Ivan gives a soft, strict punch to Al's stomach, letting Al know of what will happen if he doesn't cooperate.

"No, I mean, _something_ is happening with you. Today in English, for example. You were very… jumpy. It's _none_ of my business, I know, I'm just _worried_ for my fellow classmate." Alfred purses his lips a little, before grinning. "I mean, I don't want your _grades_ to be affected, if you have something on your mind! School is _always_ the most important, after all. Without school, you can't get a job; without a job, you can't get money; without money, you can't get a _life_, Jones the Second." God, Al fucking _hates_ this sloppy load of piss poor fuck; he hates how they look like the same picture in a coloring book, but Alfred was colored _perfectly _and _precisely_, with blues and yellows and good, bright colors, and Al was scribbled over with broken crayons and dull pencils, eraser marks and rips from pressing too hard; he hates how Alfred has this sort of _power_ over him, easily able to strive forward and take charge, leaving Al to scramble for whatever is left over, the scraps of Alfred's success; he hates, absolutely _hates,_ the effect Alfred has on him, how he can easily make Al feel like a discarded shitty diaper with a few simple shitty words.

"_So, Jones the Second, what's going on?_" Alfred repeats, leaning into the brunette's face, still smiling ever so gladly. Usually, Al has control of himself. He won't lie and say he's never been in this situation before, but he's _always_ been able to toughen up, make it simple, come up with a lie if needed; He is _always_ able to slip out of any 'scary' situation; He can usually make it out of a brawl with a smooth excuse and a quick getaway, maybe a few scratches.

But this is _Alfred,_ his exact, polar opposite, who is questioning about what is bothering him, and Al can't come up with anything fast enough. He can't lie about teach, about Mr. Kirkland. He can't think of anything except how badly he fucked up with his teach.

In a moment of sheer arrogance and stupidity (maybe bravery?) he breathes in, and spits a wad of mucous and saliva into Alfred's face.

He limps home, blood dripping, bruises forming, but a faint smile on his face as he thinks 'bout how he stood up to that asshole, in some way.

* * *

Of _course_ Arthur didn't go to work the next day. He was ashamed and nervous and bloody _infuriated_ that he let what happened happen, and that he _enjoyed_ it, of all things! Why did Al feel the need to do that? Was getting good grades that big of a deal for him, so much that he would go as far as using his body to get what he wanted? How long has he been doing this? (How did he learn how to be so _good_ at it?)

He will go back to school when Thanksgiving break is over. Until then, he will mope in self-hatred and try to forget about the horrible (horribly _good_) experience. Thanksgiving is tomorrow, and if he's going to have a turkey, he needs to go to the store.

Except his car makes this horrible noise when he's driving. Before he even gets to the grocer, the engine dies, and he coasts until he can pull over. He finds it convenient that there's an auto shop on the street he was on, and he turns into its parking lot, stopping the car and getting out. It's about noon, and there's an automatic car horn that blares when Arthur opens the door to the main office, making the older man jump. The bulky, muscly man behind the counter gives a raised eyebrow, shrugging and setting his motorcycle magazine down. Arthur raises his own brows at the tall man, with messy almost-white blonde hair and strangely vibrant purple eyes. There's a scar on the man's left cheek, along with some on his right forearm, going from his elbow to his wrist in haggard gashes. Arthur stops staring.

"Can I help you?" The man asks. "You seem to be in the wrong place."

"Oh, _heavens_ no! This seems like a good establishment!" Arthur denies quickly. "Besides, my car literally died right outside your shop. I was able to coast it in here, but I don't know if I will be able to get it to start again."

"Why not?" The man asks. "When a car dies, you can restart it. It's not the end of the world." Arthur can't believe how stupid he's sounding. For a teacher of English, he's acting very poorly.

"I-I mean, it had made funny noises since I left my apartment-"

"Ah, _there_ we go!" The man exclaims, a teasing smile on his face. "_Now_ we're getting somewhere, buddy. Name's Lutz. Let's go check out your ride." Lutz leads the way, Arthur following, mentally bashing his head in. Arthur points out his ride, and Lutz gives a whistle.

"_Nice_. A little old, but definitely a good one. I'll give it a quick check." Lutz pops the hood, peeks in, rummages around a little, and gives out a low noise of affirmation. His tall frame leans straight as he shuts the old metal. He inhales a quick breath.

"Well, sir, I'll give it to you short and sweet." Lutz begins. "Your radiator has ruptured."

"E-excuse me?"

"Here, lemme show you." Lutz pops the hood again, and ushers Arthur over, pointing at a thick metal filter. "Usually, they don't have multiple holes in their mesh. Happens over time, nothing major. At least," he adds quickly, "if this wasn't such an old car. Thankfully, the parts are still easy to come by with this model, but it'll take a few days for the car to be fixed. Do you have another ride?"

"Yes, a truck."

"Well, at least you'll be able to get to your job and shit in time, if you have an occupation."

"I do, yes. How many days do you expect?"

"Well, I know we'll be closed for Thanksgiving tomorrow, so maybe Tuesday or Wednesday next week?"

"Oh, that's good! How much will it be?"

"For the new radiator, I'm guessing about… Maybe two grand?"

"That's perfect! Thank you, Lutz. Shall we get any papers signed, if needed?"

"Yeah. I know that A.J. will be on it by four today." They turn towards the entrance once more.

"A.J.?" Arthur asks. Lutz nods.

"Loves these oldies. Knows the most about them, so I usually let him help with those if they come in."

"As long as you believe he's the best for the job. Now, what information do you need?"

* * *

When Al gets home, he opens the door slowly, trying to figure out if his parents are there or not. When he guesses the coast is clear, he tiredly drags his feet to the bathroom. He sheds his old jacket, jeans, shirt, and boxers, stepping into a warm, musty shower.

Ma has been so busy lately; her job as a relator has picked up since the debt crash hit. She especially doesn't like it when he comes home battered and bloody. His father's bar has also picked up since the debt crash. Al looks down at his browned skin littered with deep, dark bruises from getting kicked in the stomach. _At least they had the respect to not aim for my dick,_ Al thinks, letting out a weak chuckle. He runs his tongue along his teeth, mouth tasting of blood from his bitten tongue and his cut lips. The blood runs down his body, pooling in the water, rinsing it away. He lathers some shampoo into his oily, bloody hair, cleaning it. He winces when he hits a bruise hidden under his scalp. He takes his time, drawing out any grime from his cherry-brown hair, sighing when the soap runs over cuts and scrapes on his back, arms, and legs. He knows he has to clean off the rest of his body, and clenches his jaw to keep from groaning or crying out. He stumbles out of the shower, getting a dark red towel – thank God – to wipe the red-tinged water from his skin. He looks in the mirror for a moment, assessing his face and checking his wounds.

There are rings around his eyes; not bruises, but bags, from nights of staying up, worrying about school or recalling every little stupid thing he's ever done or just thinking about nothing, sitting in the darkness, with an occasional car to pass by. Those're quiet, powerful times, at two in the mornin', lyin' in bed, looking as the shadows and shades of darkness twist and move dependin' on how long he kept his eyes open before blinking. It's almost like a dream, where you could do anything without gettin' caught, in the dark of the night in the dark of the room.

He opens the drawer to his right, finding a tube of Neosporin. It goes everywhere needed. He uses the gauze his father stores under the sink, and Band-Aids from the cabinet. He wraps the soiled towel around him until he gets to his room, with the shitty, old carpet, and light brown walls with peeling paint. His bed is a sanctuary, and after struggling into boxers and a black t-shirt, placing the towel into the hamper, and limping back into his room, he flops under the covers, deciding to not work on his homework.

'_Work,'_ he remembers instantly at his wordin'. '_Shit.'_ He reaches sloppily for his battered cell, flipping it open and hitting three, before pressing enter and putting the phone to his ear.

"_A.J.!_" He hears Lutz yell. "Where _are_ ya? You're late!"

"I-I… I can't come in today." Al groans.

"Why?"

"I kind of got my ass kicked. I can barely walk. You can take it out of my pay, whatever. I just can't make it in today." Al feels Lutz might try to say somethin', maybe apologize or joke about it, so Al adds, "y'know I can take care a' myself. I don't need no pity party, Lutz."

"Okay, alright… But when you come in the day after tomorrow, you need to start immediately on this car." Al's eyes, which had closed, snap open.

"Car? It an old one?"

"Vintage Rolls Royce. Thought you might like to work on it. The guy that came in with it was outta here, I'm tellin' ya! He was an old white guy, it was hilarious. Down _here,_ especially! What was he doin' outside of his uptown suburb?" Al laughs, then stops when it hurts his stomach.

"I could come in tomorrow to work."

"It's _Thanksgiving!_ No one's gonna be here!"

"Don't mean I can't work."

"…I'll leave a key under Olivia's flowerpot outside." Olivia's Lutz's girlfriend. She's a short, stout chick, with pale skin and freckles. She keeps her smooth pixie a baby pink shade and has sky blue eyes. She works at a flower shop. "I'm gonna be at Olivia's tomorrow, if you needed a place to crash for the day." Lutz knows about how Al doesn't like his 'rents, and knows how much they won't give a fuck if Al doesn't show up for dinner. If they even show up themselves. Al can't think of anything worse than being a third wheel to Lutz and Olivia's dinner.

"Nah, I'm good, hombre. Just be sure to leave the key under the pot, a'ight?"

"'Kay, A.J. Have a good break."

"You too, later."

"Bye."

Al drops his hand from his ear, and closes his eyes. He takes a nap.

* * *

Arthur goes home, and decides to just eat out the next day for Thanksgiving, rather than making a dinner for himself. Although he just adores the leftovers, he doesn't think he needs to have an entire turkey for a holiday he only started celebrating in the past decade. He sits, and for once, he watches the television, before making a roast and going to bed.

He awakens on Thanksgiving feeling like lead. He slumps onto his toilet and sighs as he urinates, before sliding into the shower. He feels like a teenager who has to go to school after a late night, and when he thinks of teenagers his mind immediately fills with images of Al. Instead of blushing with embarrassment, he turns red in anger. Who does he think he is, that bloody bellend? His thoughts swarm with ideas of how he'll punish the adolescent. Giving him referrals, detention, expulsion…

He feels something stirring inside of him, and thinks it to be anger and annoyance, but he looks down to find an erection.

"W-what…?" He whispers incredulously. He stares in wonder at first, before clenching his fists and scrubbing his hair, leaving his penis to deflate by itself in punishment for finding the insolent boy to be arousing. He's a teenager, and Arthur himself is in his forties! It would be abhorred; it would be taboo; it would be socially ostracized!

(It would be exactly what he wanted.)

He gets out of the shower furiously, scowling as he rubs his skin red with his towel. He slips into something easily comfortable; jeans with a white t-shirt and green sweater vest. He leaves his hair to dry, turning clumped and brittle as he pulls out his embroidery and threads a storm. He nearly pulls out all of his hair when the finished result is a name, in articulate red cursive.

_'Al Leonard Jones'_.

"God damn it!" He shouts, throwing the cloth across his small sitting room. He glares at it, before leaning down, putting his head in his hands. Very quietly, almost inaudible, he mutters,

"What the bloody hell have you _done_ to me?"

Eventually, he picks up the embroidery, and sets it back into his basket, putting it away in his knitting cabinet.

* * *

Al wakes up at eleven, his parents long gone. He knew that the bar would be open, and his father would be nursing the alcoholics whose families didn't invite them to dinner. His mother, well, who even cared? She was either sleeping like a rock or out shopping with whatever money she earned from her house sales. He takes a shower, deciding not to beat off, and pulls on a hoodie to hide his bruises if he runs into anyone he knows. He slips on some old, battered boots, and grabs his house key, going out the door and walking to the shop.

The car nearly steals all the breath from his lungs at first sight. It's a little rusted around the wheels, and the hood is peeling a little, but it was once a shiny steel grey color, with glossy black trim and accents. He looks at the key, and immediately labels it as a Silver Dawn saloon from 1953.

"Well, aren't you rad?" He grins, missing tooth apparent. "Your owner must be one lucky son of a bitch, huh?" He gives the car a start, and it putters for a few seconds, before dying. "Well, there _was_ a reason you're here." He chuckles, and gets back out of the car, admiring the chain link around the outside of the shops perimeter. He moves to the hood, popping it and looking inside for the cause. He groans in a disbelieving way at the sight of the well-kempt engine, then groans painfully at the sight of the torn radiator mesh. "Oh, you poor thing. You need some new teeth, don't you?" He coos at the aged machine, before giving the motor a pat and a reassuring grin, shutting the hood. "Well, don't worry. Al here'll fix ya right up." He turns to get to the entrance, lifting the flower pot easily and retrieving the key from beneath, unlocking the door and slipping through the entryway with enough space to let him through without triggering the loud horn that resonates with every opening of the door. He wasn't exactly fond of loud noises. Reminded him of his parents; loud, nasty things.

He moves behind the counter to the computer, opening up a browser and looking to his favorite website for car parts. While it's loading, he opens another tab, looking to see what kind of radiator the ride would need. After much searching (a few pages with the keywords 'radiator' and 'silver dawn') he finds the perfect radiator that matched with what he needed. The thing cost fifteen grand, and Al briefly wonders how much Lutz asked the man to pay to get the car fixed. He shrugs, and puts the single item into his cart, moving to the checkout. He puts in all the information, hunts for any usable coupons for the site (waste 'a time tryin'), and buys the radiator, getting the receiving date of three days from today, on Sunday. He moves back out to the car, and begins rummaging around inside of it shamelessly. Al always finds it interesting to find out more about the owners of these old babes; forgotten condoms under seats, lost change from the sixties, stale cigarettes… Not to mention whatever they hold in their glove box.

He locates a misfit box of tea, and pricks himself on a sewing needle, cursing softly. He sees a cassette under the passenger seat, and pulls it out, examining the contents.

"'Arctic Monkeys'?" He raises an eyebrow. "Sounds cool." He puts the tape onto the seat.

"Hey, you! What are you doing to my car?" He hears behind his back, and curses not shutting the gate to the property. He doesn't notice the accent.

"Listen, I work here, it ain't what it looks like-" He turns to look at the prosecutor, before openly gaping. "Teach? What're _you_ doin' here?"

"That's my car! I drove by to check on it and make sure it wasn't getting stolen!" Arthur cries. Al nods, discreetly turning so Arthur can't see much of his face. He doesn't want the teacher to see the cuts and bruises.

"A'ight, I can accept that. I ain't stealin' it. I'm workin' on it. I just ordered the radiator, and it'll be here on Sunday, 'kay?" Arthur glares, but his surprise and fear at the thought of his car getting stolen deflates.

"Alright… That's good." Arthur says hesitantly. "You're A.J.?"

"Yup. Lutz kinda made me a fake I.D., and I'm a twenty year old named A.J. Fredrickson."

"That is illegal. I could turn you in." Arthur smirks knowingly. Al shrugs.

"You won't." Is his simple response. Their conversation goes quiet.

"Who're the 'Arctic Monkeys'?" Al asks after a moment of silence. Arthur raises a thick brow.

"You don't know the 'Arctic Monkeys'?" Arthur questions incredulously. Al shakes his head.

"I found the tape under your passenger seat."

"Damn, that must be from nearly fifteen years ago…" He curses. Al's eyes widen.

"You curse?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"I dunno, you seemed like a proper sort of dude." The conversation goes silent again. Arthur starts it back up.

"Why are you here on Thanksgiving? Working overtime?" Arthur asks. Al shrugs.

"I didn't go to work yesterday, so yeah, probably. I just really like old cars. Not to mention it's not like any of my family is home right now." Arthur's brows furrow.

"Your father isn't watching football? Your mother isn't making a turkey?"

"Nah, my dad's probably getting drunk at his bar, and my mom's probably shopping or laying some jerk who she's selling a house to." Al replies honestly. Arthur doesn't respond for a moment.

"Why weren't you at work yesterday? I thought Lutz said that you were coming in at four…"

"Pressing into my personal business, homie. It's not your concern." Arthur nods, and looks at Al, whose face is hid by the hood of his jacket. Arthur thinks it looks a little blotchy, a little darker than usual in some places. Arthur squints a little, and Al notices and turns away. "Well, y'know what's going on now. You can go on with whatever you were doin', teach." Arthur slowly creeps forward, and reaches for Al's hood, determined to find out what happened.

Al whips around, one hand coming up to grasp Arthur's wrist, the other one blocking hits that weren't coming any time soon. Arthur gasps at how tightly Al's squeezing his arm, and he hears his wrist pop. Al immediately lets go, hands shaking slightly.

"S-sorry, I'm so sorry." He apologizes quickly.

"What's wrong with your face?" Arthur insists.

"Nothing. I'm fine. Go do whatever you were gonna do."

"No, what's wrong with your face? It's my job to care for my students." Arthur explains, and he keeps pressing and pressing, Al growing more and more frustrated, and the American finally shouts in exasperation, flinging the hood off to reveal a swollen nose, cut lips, and bruises that littered his face.

"Look, see? I'm _fine!_" Al yells. Arthur inhales, and steps back a little, before squinting and stepping forward, trying to get a closer look before Al could object.

"…What _happened_, Al?" Arthur asks quietly. Al's shoulders slump forward slightly, and he lets out a haggard sigh.

"Got beat up by some white trash yuppies." He mumbles.

"Is there anywhere else that is hurt?" Arthur continues.

"My arms and stomach."

"Let me see."

"Here? In _public?_" Al glances up warily, looking around the desolate parking lot. Traffic moved outside the fence.

"Inside the store." Arthur compromises. Al nods slowly, hesitantly. He doesn't want to agree, not at all.

"Yeah, fine, teach." Al leads Arthur to the entrance numbly, opening the door and slipping through, allowing Arthur to follow. They move to the restroom in the shop, the one that smelt of old grease and oil and faintly of shit.

"Now, the jacket." Arthur orders strictly, holding out a hand. Al unzips, and gives it to his teacher. Arthur can see the cuts and bruises littered over his forearms and what he can see of his upper arms, but he'll need to wait for the shirt to come off before he can really see what the damage is. "Shirt."

"O-okay." Al holds in his grimace at the feeling of pulling the shirt over his head, and he hands it delicately to Arthur. Arthur folds both clothing pieces, and looks at Al, shirtless and bare.

His skin is still tan from the summer, the dark color present on his chest and stomach. He seems a little scrawny, but muscles are definitely prominent. The scrapes are fresh, from being rubbed forcefully against concrete or some other hard solid. There's three big bruises on his abdomen; one on his right pectoral, one in the middle of his stomach (shaped distinctly like a fist), and one he could only see part of on his hip.

"Turn." Arthur beeps. Al does so. Arthur's jaw drops at the haggard, horrible scrapes on his back, which he obviously spent more time on than his stomach. And that's not mentioning the faint scars that littered Al's torso. There's small circles – cigarette burns, no doubt – on his arms and collarbone; thin lines on his upper arms; one large gash on his lower back.

"'s nothin', teach. I've had worse." Al admits, and Arthur has to agree. The boy has seen so much more than a few bruises and scrapes on his body.

"Al…"

"What?"

"These are _horrible_. You didn't deserve this. You _don't_ deserve this." Arthur whispers. Al lets out a low laugh.

"A' course I do, teach. I'm a terrible person. The only reason I ever get beat up is because I fight back. I spit in one of the guys faces yesterday, and he and his buddies beat me up."

"_Al._" Arthur hisses. The student pauses, and looks over at his elder.

"What?" He repeats. Arthur moves forward, hugging the teenager softly. Al tenses, and shoves the teacher off of him.

"_Don't_ pity me. Don't touch me, either. I don't like being touched." Al explains simply. "Can I have my clothes back?"

"No, we aren't done yet." Arthur denies. Al groans, and turns back to his teach.

"What do you want, man? I just want to work on your car and then go home and make some dinner for myself." Al bites out. Arthur's face falls, before frustration fills his veins.

"In fact, I was just on my way out to eat dinner myself. I usually make a turkey, but the car broke down, and I didn't have time to buy a turkey after that. How about you come accompany me at supper?" Arthur invites. Al just stares.

"Why?"

"Well, not only the fact that you kind of had oral sex with me the day before yesterday, but we're both alone on a national holiday."

"I didn't bring any money, and I won't allow you to pay for my food."

"We'll drop by your house. No one's there, right?"

"Well, yeah, but it's pretty far away-"

"Come on, Al. Stop trying to make it so you can wallow in your own loneliness."

"…I'm not eating any meat."

"They have tofu substitutes. You could probably get a tofurkey or whatever the hell they are."

Al turns away, not allowing the Brit to see the thin, tiny smile.

"…Fuck it, alright. Where're we goin'?" Al asks.

"Well, your house, first. You need money, right?" At Al's nod, Arthur continues. "Then the diner down on sixth."

"But what about a car?" Al questions finally. Arthur sighs, and gives in to a chuckle.

"I have a truck. How do you think I got here?"

"O-oh, I thought you walked." Al stutters out easily. He never stutters, and Arthur notices.

"How'd you get here?" Arthur continues easily.

"I walked."

"Oh? I thought you said your house was far from here."

"It is. Four or five miles."

"How long did it take you?!"

"Two hours?" Al guesses. "I'm lazy, I didn't look at the time."

"You walked for two hours to work, but you're too lazy to look at how long it takes to get here?" Arthur laughs. Al smiles faintly, and joins in.

"Yeah, I guess." Arthur hands back Al's shirt and coat. Al thankfully puts them on. Al opens the door, and Arthur walks through, Al following. Arthur slows down, then stops.

"How come you don't have your own car?" Arthur inquires.

"I'm saving the money I get, which isn't a lot, but every li'l penny counts, right?"

"…Indeed." Arthur leads the way to his truck, an old blue Chevy. Al doesn't comment, and gets into the passenger side.

"Do you have a license?" Arthur asks as he shuts his door, buckling up.

"No, not yet."

"And yet you work on cars?"

"Hey, if I had the money or time, I would fucking ace that test." Arthur nods.

"You know, I didn't have my license until I was twenty and had to drive to university myself." Arthur starts the car, and looks back, pulling out of the makeshift parking spot slowly. "But, then again, that was in Baskerville, England, so it wasn't that big of a deal. I had friends." The teacher turns onto the road, and gives a glance at the bruised student beside him. "How about you? How's that lady-friend of yours doing?"

"Oh, she's fine. Down to half a pack."

"Of cigarettes? That's illegal."

"She was raised in France, and started smoking there, before she moved here."

"Oh, your friend is Mister Bonnefoy's cousin?"

"Mister Bonnefoy? The French teacher?"

"Yes, that frog is related to her?" Arthur asks. "Well, I hope that she isn't as much as a git as Francis." Al laughs nervously.

"Nah, she's rad. And I don't know, I've only met her family once." Al doesn't mention it was when she was caught with a guy and a girl in her room, all three of them naked, and he had to pick her up because she had been kicked out for the night. He also doesn't mention that she's kind of his fuck-buddy, the returning feeling of guilt pooling in his stomach. The car lulls into silence.

"So, where do you live?"

"Up by the corner mart on Second and Hartford."

"Alright." Arthur takes a left, and soon comes across Second Street, turning onto it.

"Right there," Al instructs, and Arthur parks on the street next to a house. It looks moderately taken care of, but not really, as the grass is nearly gone in the front, and the paint is chipped in some places from wear and tear.

"You wanna come in?" Al asks, before wincing at the mere thought. His house – his room – was a mess. It was nothing to be proud of, and Al was ashamed at times to live in the pig sty. But before he could take back the offer, Arthur responds,

"I would love to." Al slides out of the door, bashing his head in mentally. He scrambles for his house key, and opens the front door, allowing his teacher in after him.

Arthur looks around quizzically. He knows by the pack of cigarettes next to a large white bowl that someone in the house smokes, and by the brand that, whoever they were, had exceptionally good taste in fags. Arthur gets a momentary longing, but turns away before it could become a hunger and his addiction could return like a long lost mother.

"I'll be right back," Al informs, "Make yourself at home or whatever." Arthur nods, and moves from the kitchen to the living room, which looks like no one has lived in it for a few years. The aged television is off, something telling Arthur that its bill hasn't been paid. The worn leather couch is prim and stiff, and Arthur sits on it, feeling the stale cushion beneath him. There are pictures on the walls and a few on the side ends of the couch, covered in a fine layer of dust. He picks up one and rubs the dust off with his sweater vest, recognizing Al in the picture as a child, maybe four or five. He's on the back of an older adolescent, who has shoulder length dark blonde hair, and grey eyes. Upon closer inspection, the eyes seem lavender. The elder is in a red plaid button down and jeans, and Al is in a pair of shorts.

"That's my brother, Matt." Al explains, and Arthur turns to look at his student, nodding.

"Good looking fellow. How old is he?"

"In the picture? Thirteen."

"Eight year difference?"

"Seven."

"He's twenty-five, then? Is he at college?"

"No, he's dead." Arthur stares at Al, who just looks forward.

"I'm so sorry-"

"Chill, it's fine. It's not anything new. He died eight years ago. Bad car accident with a drunk driver." Arthur looks forward now, nodding.

"Still, that's very rough. I had an older brother – hated him, bloody nimrod – but he died when he was twenty from alcohol poisoning." Al gives a low whistle.

"Damn." He sighs, and gives a weak smirk. "Life sucks, huh?"

"Yes, it does." Arthur agrees, but glances at Al and smiles softly. "But some things are good, as well."

"Oh, really? Like what?"

"I once met a man from Norway." Arthur starts, and Al almost groans, but the look on Mister Kirkland's face shut him up real quick. "He was an exchange student, studying abroad in Oxford. I smoked cigarettes and talked witchcraft with him. Unfortunately, he had to return to his country – something about a younger brother who was caught doing illicit drugs – and I didn't get a number, email… Nothing. No way of keeping in contact with my good Norwegian chap."

"Does this story have a moral? Why are you telling me this?"

"Yes, and because, it gets better! Now, where was I…" Arthur pauses in thought, and then grins, eyes lighting up when he remembers. "Oh, yes! A few years went by, and I was spending some time getting ready to leave for the States, and I wanted to go down memory lane and drive by my old university, for old times' sake. And guess who was there?"

"The Queen herself?" Al jokes. Arthur coughs a little, glaring.

"No, the _Norwegian!_ He said that he wanted to catch up and have a drink or two. I still have his email, and we IM from time to time."

"What a _happy_ ending! I _do _wish I get one of _those_ in my life!" Al conjures up a rusty British accent, slapping a hand to his heart. Arthur chuckles, elbowing the other lightly. Al shifts slightly away from the touch.

"Why don't you like being touched?" Arthur asks, before adding quickly, "I mean, if it isn't too personal."

"Eh, I dunno. A leftover recoil from being beat up a lot?" Al raises an eyebrow and shrugs. "If it isn't someone I trust, then the thought makes me feel sick."

_'You don't trust me?'_ Arthur wanted to respond, a little hurt. Instead he nods. "I understand." Al smiles, shit-eating and snarky, but it wears into something a little warmer, something friendlier.

"Thanks, Mister Kirkland."

"Arthur."

"Huh?" Al blinks a few times, confused.

"Outside of school, you can call me Arthur." Al stares a little longer, then it clicks, and his eyes widen, an incredulous grin on his lips.

"A'ight, Arthur. Can I call you Artie?" Arthur sighs, and rises.

"No. We need to go. It's about…" He pulls out a pocket watch, looking at the time. "It's five-thirty." Al stands as well.

"How 'bout A-dog?"

"No, Al." They're in the foyer, opening the front door and stepping onto the dry lawn.

"How old are you?" Al asks in the car. Arthur counts.

"I'll be forty-five in January." Arthur responds quietly. _'There's nearly a thirty year difference between Al and myself'_. Al gives a noise of surprise.

"Whoa, really? You don't look it." Al comments. "I thought you were in your mid-thirties." Arthur was about to respond, but Al cut in again. "How about AK-44? AK-45?"

"God, no." When they reach the diner, Al starts getting more creative.

"Kirklando?"

"No."

"Kirk? Like Captain Kirk?"

"No."

"Would you two like anything to drink?" A waitress appears.

"I'd like a hot tea, please." Arthur informs.

"Coffee, if that's a'ight."

"I'll be back with your drinks." She flees. Al turns back to Arthur, spouting out nicknames until the waitress returns with their cups of hot liquid.

"She was cute." He says offhandedly. Arthur thinks about it, frowning a small 'not bad' sort of frown.

"Yeah, I can agree. Not my type, though."

"Oh, really?" Al continues, interested. "What's your type?"

"Someone who has a penis, for one thing." Al nearly spits out his first drink of coffee.

"You mean-"

"I'm homosexual? Yes, I fancy men."

"But at the beginning of the school year, when you were answering questions-"

"Someone asked if I was married or had a wife, and I said no to both." Arthur explains. _'So that's why he responded so well to my B.J.'_, Al concludes. He gives a small hum, returning to his drink.

"That's rad. Go get that D, A."

"Please don't call me A, either." Al laughs at Arthur.

"You might not want to tell Alfred, though. Or any of his friends."

"Why?"

_'Because I like the thought a' this bein' between you and me.'_ "'Cause he's homophobic. There's more than one reason why we hate each other."

"You're gay?" Arthur questions.

"Pan, but still. He's a major dick."

"Hey, I happen to find him to be one of my favorite students."

"Even I see the way you get a little pissed lookin' when he calls you coach." Al exclaims, giggling. Al knows he's correct when Mister Kirkland looks into his tea, his thick brows furrowing at the thought. A moment's silence, and Al continues casually, "I also see the way you light up when I say how good you teach and lecture us." Arthur's brows furrow even more, and a small blush appears on his ears and cheeks. Al laughs.

"How about A-Man?" Arthur groans, and the moment's over.

"Heavens, no."

"What would you two like tonight?" The waitress is back, and Al goes first.

"You have any veggie burgers? No onions."

"And fries are okay?"

"Yeah."

"Alrighty! And for you, sir?"

"I'll have your Thanksgiving special."

"What part of the turkey would you like? We have wings, legs, and breasts."

"A breast, please."

"Mashed potatoes, coleslaw, collard greens, or cranberry sauce? You can pick two."

"Potatoes and greens. Do the potatoes come with gravy?"

"Yup! Will that be everything?"

"I believe so." She nods and leaves.

"She's very nice, what kind of tip should we leave her?" Arthur asks Al. The younger shrugs.

"Five and five?"

"Sounds perfect." Arthur grins.

"So," Al drawls, running out of small talk. "Do you want to talk about Tuesday now, or later?"

"Later, preferably." Arthur immediately shoots down. "This is a public facility, such illicit things are not to be spoken of." He didn't want others to know that Al, his student, his junior of twenty-six years, had performed oral sex on him. It wasn't logical; it wasn't legal; it sounded like something horrible out of an old romance novel for elderly women! "Listen, Al, if you are very urgent with wanting to talk about it, we can go to my apartment after supper, if you'd wish."

_'Is he inviting me over?_' Al's hands feel a little warm, his toes clench, and he feels something coiling in his stomach. Trying to decipher his teacher, Al squints a little, watching him. If he notices the staring (he does, they're only two or three feet from each other), he pays no mind, stirring a packet of sugar into his self-refilled tea.

"My, it's such a shame America doesn't use sugar cubes." He comments offhandedly. Personally, his mind still runs on the idea of bringing Al to his apartment; letting the student see where he lives; showing Al his bedroom with the comfy queen bed covered in a shameless quilt or two. He wonders what it would be like to have sexual relations on those quilts-

"The packets are more convenient, 'Thur. They have the same amount of sugar as a cube, and you can hold more of them in a smaller space." Arthur smiles. For someone who isn't a straight-A student, Al is very bright.

"I don't like 'Thur, either." Well, bright in some areas. Al just chuckles.

"I'll find one, don't worry." The conversation stays light and simple until the foot arrives, and Arthur picks up a rather sore subject.

"So, why don't you like Alfred?" Mister Kirkland starts. Al finishes chewing his first bite of his burger, and swallows, opening his mouth slowly, about to reveal a key fact to the two's relationship-

"No." Arthur is taken aback.

"'No'? What do you mean?"

"No, as in I'm not talking about it." Al's face is impassive, but he's shaking on the inside. If Mister Kirkland found out about how Al got the shit beat out of himself at Alfred's hands, he doesn't know what the teacher would do. Call his parents? Inform the principal about the bullying? Call Alfred out about it in class? Worst of all, would Arthur _pity _him?

_'No'_, Al thinks, _'I can't risk it. I don't want him to think less of me.'_ They eat quietly for a few minutes.

"Why are you in the States, anyways?" Al dips a fry in supplied fry sauce, nibbling at the cooked potato.

"I'll tell you if you tell me why the air is pickled between you and Alfred." Arthur compromises. Al mulls it over, and shrugs, eating another fry.

"Nah, I don't care _that _much." He replies simply. Arthur sighs, defeated.

"Alright, fine." Arthur declares, grumpily shoving a forkful of potatoes into his mouth. Al raises an eyebrow at the childish act, but shrugs, delicately finishing off his burger. He takes a sip of his coffee, to find Arthur staring at him.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer." Al can't help but allow the phrase to roll off his tongue.

"That was very cliché," Arthur bites back, reddening because yes, he was staring. "I-I have just never seen an adolescent eat so slowly!"

"I like to savor the flavor, yo." Arthur continues slicing a piece of his turkey breast, until he understands that Al isn't just talking about the food. Al laughs at the speed Mister Kirkland's face was engulfed in flames.

"So, how was Wednesday?" Arthur asks.

"Alright, besides the whole fight thing." Arthur had almost forgotten.

"Oh, right! Did you get a good look at any of your suspects?" Al shakes his head.

"It was in an alley, and their hoods were huge, man." Al lies easily. Arthur nods.

"Bloody shame. I would have loved watching those dumb twats get sent to jail." Al blinks in surprise, before cracking a grin.

"Me too, A-Bro."

"God, that one was just untasteful. You're losing your creativity." Arthur chides, a taunting frown on his lips. Al almost looks at his teacher's lips, which are a slightly pinker color than his still barely-red skin, chapped looking and now smiling slightly. Instead, Al moves to his food, grabbing a fry. He laughs at his teacher's teasing.

"What'd your old Norwegian friend call you?"

"Arthur, of course." Mister Kirkland answers. Al purses his lips, thinking. Arthur almost looks at his student's lips, which are a shade darker than the tan skin, smooth and young and although Al's lips are currently wrinkled from the clenched lip muscles, he knows how soft they are, and how they would feel like worn leather against his own. Instead, Arthur looks at his food, taking a bite of the greens.

A lot of the rest of dinner goes like that, both refusing to believe that they're stealing surreptitious glances at the others mouth, and refusing to believe that the other is doing the exact same thing.

The waitress was snickering at the pair as she brought the bill, and they both paid for their respective Thanksgiving dinner and exited.

"Y'know…" Al starts. "This is the first kinda decent Thanksgiving I've had in a while, teach. Thanks." Arthur nearly beams at the words, but sticks with a polite smile.

"You are most certainly welcome, Al. Anything for a chap." Al almost grins, but nods instead. Arthur is first into the car, Al slipping in after. The truck is started, and they pull out. It's a stop sign before their plans for the rest of the night are mulled over.

"Do you want to talk about it now?" Arthur eases in softly. Al thinks, decides, and shakes his head.

"I would like to come over, if that's a'ight." Al can't believe what he's saying. Arthur can't believe what he's hearing. He takes a turn towards where his apartment is. Al sees the looks of his elder's rigid posture, his usually pale green eyes nearly glowing like the green of a stop light that's been switched to 'go'. Al is a little entranced by the sight, and doesn't notice they arrived until the heat from the vents is shut off and the green light is gone as Arthur gets out the of the truck. Al follows. He's behind Arthur, following him up cement stairs.

"Don't touch any pictures." Arthur lists. "Take your shoes off when you get inside. Don't break anything. And please, do _not_ flop onto my loveseat." Arthur pulls out a keychain with so many keys Al can't begin counting, and Arthur picks one with a red cover over the head, inserting it into the lock and twisting. The door opens silently.

"Welcome to my apartment." Arthur mumbles quietly, going in first and holding the door open as he slips his loafers off. Al steps in slowly, his large, bulky boots easily being kicked off, laid skewered in the small entryway. Arthur move to the hardwood floor of his sitting room, a few chairs next to the aforementioned loveseat, a brown leather. There is at least one bookcase on each wall, all of them piled with books, from classics to cult fictions to research books.

"Looks nice, King Arthur." Arthur laughs now, a deep, melodic chuckle that melts Al's nerves.

"Thank you, Al. Here is the kitchen…" Al tags along obediently, admiring the tidiness and the new-looking walls, never once having a scratch on them. Except…

"Did you start a fire on your stove or something?" Al questions jokingly, catching sight of the charred looking electronic, the wall it's pushed up against browner than the others.

"M-maybe."

"Multiple times?"

"I never said I could cook!" Al puts his hands up in surrender.

"Alright, alright! Cool it, gramps."

"'Gramps'?! I'm only twenty-six years older than you!" Arthur retorts, face turning red.

"Oh, sorry, my mistake." Al apologizes sincerely, walking past Mister Kirkland. "_Dad._"

"Why you little-" Arthur breaks into a sprint, and Al lets out a noise of surprise before running, his teacher giving chase. He's laughing as he runs down a hallway, three doors visible. He quickly opens one and flies in before he can think to shut the door, but by the time he thinks to, Arthur is already in the room, and the shorter man jumps, tackling Al to the ground. Al wheezes as the air is knocked out of his lungs, and his back scrapes feel newly reopened.

Arthur notices the look of pain and immediately gets off, sitting on the carpet and watching Al. He sits up.

"A little rough, homie."

"I apologize. That was bad etiquette and very impolite-"

"Nah, man. It's fine. I think my back's bleeding again, though." Arthur abruptly stands, pulling Al up and taking his student to the restroom.

"Sit on the counter." Arthur instructs. "Face away from me, let me see your back." Al is a lot less reluctant to remove his coat and shirt, and allows Arthur to actually touch his shoulder bones, the slightly chilled hands assessing the damages once more, now fresh.

"I'm so, so sorry-"

"It's fine, Arthur, stop." Al insists, back arching slightly under the cold touch. The hands are gone, and he hears rummaging through a cabinet or a drawer, before something wet and slimy is smeared on his back.

"Neosporin," Arthur explains, and Al loosens a little, wincing slightly when Arthur's touch skims over the scar on his lower back. "Where did you get the scars?"

"Personal."

"Alright." Arthur gets out some gauze, wrapping it around Al's torso and abdomen. "Turn." At Arthur's order, Al shimmies his body to be facing Arthur. "Is it good? I didn't wrap it too tight, did I?" Al shakes his head, looking down.

"Sorry." Al mutters. Arthur releases a snort.

"What for?"

"I shouldn't a provoked you. I dunno what came over me." Arthur reassuringly rests his hand on Al's knee, giving a soothing smile. Al looks down from his stooped height on top of the wood counter, and Arthur's eyes connect with his, and in a split moment of stupidity, Arthur moves up and pecks Al on the lips. Al would have stopped it, if he hadn't of known it was coming.

But Arthur's eyes snap open, and he starts backing up. "No, I didn't mean to do that, I'm so-" Al crashes his lips to Arthur's, who's eyes are wide and shocked and he immediately starts struggling, knowing that this is his student that's kissing him, who is twenty-six years younger than him, who is battered and bruised, and Arthur tries to push away and thrash his way out of the hold the adolescent has on him, he really does; but when you were absolutely right about the soft, lovely leather-y feel of someone's lips, and you knew the temperature of their lips from the moment you gave them a real good looking at in a diner, you have to relish in that moment.

And that's exactly what Arthur did. But, he weakly tries backing up, which only results in Al hopping off the counter, their lips disconnected for a few moments, enough time for Arthur to say, "No, Al, this isn't-" and for Al to respond, "I don't even care, man, fuck the police," and kiss Arthur again.

It must do the trick, because instead of pushing away, Arthur pulls Al closer, his hands threading in the teen's hair, Al's hands eagerly clutching his teachers' silly-looking sweater vest on the hips of the fabric. Arthur doesn't even recall in the slightest being hefted up by Al but when he's set gently onto the bed his brain returns, thoughts swarming with how wrong this is and if he was caught he'd be fired and surely sent to jail and he begins fighting again, breaking away from Al's mouth to insist, "Al, if we're caught I'll get fired and you'll get expelled and-"

"We won't get caught." Al assures, but Arthur fights back, instinct to push Al away appearing, and he tries, only to have Al hold Arthur's hands at the height of his head on the mattress, Al connecting their lips once more. Arthur pulls away as much as he can, but then it hits him; he doesn't _want_ to pull away. He wants to kiss Al; kiss his lips, his cheeks, his chin, his neck, his scars… He wants to kiss Al _everywhere_. His hands, which were clenched into tight, white fists, loosen, and Arthur pushes his mouth roughly against Al's mouth.

When Al regards it as safe, he lets go of Arthur's wrists, and the teachers hands instantly go to Al's face, holding the boy still as he does exactly what he intended to do.

Personally, when Al watched porn, he wasn't really into the lovey dovey sappy shit. But… When Arthur did it, he felt wanted. _Loved_, even. It felt nice, and Al groaned into it, pressing his hips into Arthurs. Arthur's legs, which were previously unoccupied, curl up and wrap around Al's waist, Al holding himself up as Arthur presses soft kisses on the tan, slightly bruised neck. Al sits up on his knees, Arthur clutching around the teen.

Al tenderly removes both Arthur's vest and undershirt, pressing his open, hot kisses against Arthur's shoulders. Arthur moans quietly into it, dragging his own lips over Al's collarbone that's littered with minor scrapes and faint scars. Al feels the pale, soft skin of the older man under his fingertips. His hands remove themselves from Arthur's hips, trailing back to remove his socks. He does the same to Arthur, and leans the teacher back, reaching down and unbuckling the tweed belt before unbuttoning the jeans and sliding them down, tossing them carelessly onto the carpet. Al takes care of his own pants, allowing Arthur to lay and catch his breath (and shamelessly watch the younger man struggle out of his jeans). He wears grey plaid boxers, and climbs back onto the bed, hovering over Arthur. Arthur dusts his pale lips against Al's, and Al gives a crooked grin, kissing Arthur again.

"You got any lube?" Al asks. "And a condom?"

"Are you afraid I have an STD?!" Arthur exclaims, giggling. Al shrugs.

"Precautionary, hombre."

"Left drawer on the nightstand to the right." Al crawls up to the head of the bed – they're still near the bottom – and opens the drawer. Sure enough, a tube of water-based lube ('Cider scented?' Al thinks, chuckling a little) and a few condoms of varying size. He picks what he assumes is his size, and closes the drawer, giving Arthur a little glance.

"You bang often?"

"Precautionary." Arthur mimics.

"Touché," Al smirks, climbing back in between Arthur's legs. Al trails his hands up Arthur's thighs, reaching the end of the legs of Arthur's briefs. Al keeps eye contact as he pulls the underwear off, dropping them to the floor. He gets the lube on his fingers, rubbing it to make it warm and comforting. Al can smell the scent, and snickers a little. Arthur kicks him lightly, and Al uses some of the lube on Arthur's dick, which bounces up almost immediately. A few strokes, and Arthur bucks slightly into the pumps. Al uses his other hand to slide his way into Arthur, and the teacher arches up to the touch, clenching around the single finger immediately.

"You gotta loosen up, home-dog." Al reminds. Arthur groans, loosening immediately.

"Why do _I_ have to bottom?"

"My back could reopen, teach." Al says as he pulls the finger out and pushes it in again.

"Oh, bloody hell, don't call me that right now!" Arthur shouts. Al nods and smiles.

"A'ight, Arthur." The name sends chills down the Brit's spine, and he spreads his legs wider, letting Al finger him slowly and softly and it pulls so many sighs and grunts from Arthur it makes Al sigh at the sound.

"Go _faster,_ Al." Arthur insists. Al adds a second finger, and it keeps Arthur quiet, until Al needs to add a third and a fourth, for good measure. "About bloody fuckin' time," Arthur grumbles as Al pulls off his boxers, and gives himself a few jerks, before putting the condom on. He pulls Arthur's legs up from behind the knees, and locks eyes with his teacher.

"Are you ready?"

"God, just do it already-" Arthur cries out loudly as Al puts the tip in, slowly, inserting himself into his teacher. Arthur wriggles and whines and moans and clinches the sheets because it's been nearly _twenty seconds_ and Al is only _halfway in_-

"Jesus merciful Lord in heaven, _faster_, Al!" Arthur pleads. Al just smiles, and moves even slower, if possible, just to spite Mister Kirkland. Arthur writhes in pleasuring agony, breathing heavily. When Al finally stops moving, Arthur is trembling.

"_Please_, Al." Arthur reaches up, clenching onto the adolescent tightly. "_Please_ be faster. _Please_."

Faster than before (but still slowly, almost too slow), Al pulls out slightly, before pressing himself back inside, rocking his hips to meet Arthurs. They both begin moaning, Al's eyes closed tightly, his calloused hands wringing in the sheets to keep him upright, Arthur nearly hanging off of him, legs around Al's neck, stretching in an almost impossible way that could most likely bust Arthur's fucking hip.

Al begins laughing at the thought.

"W-what's so fu-unny?" Arthur asks, voice quivering. Al moves Arthur's legs to Al's waist, and chuckles as he holds Arthur's hands down. "W-why did you move my legs?"

"I was worried you would bust a hip, with your age and all." Al replies, and is happy he held Arthur's hands, because his teacher begins struggling to hit Al.

"F-fuck you, A-Al."

"More like fuck you, Arthur." Al gives a sudden fast shove, and the end result was fucking gold.

"That w-was a, _h-hell_, a _cliché_!" Arthur growls, clenching his teeth and leaning his head back, as Al steadily picks up the pace. With Arthur's neck now vulnerable, Al begins kissing, sucking on the junction between Arthur's neck and shoulder. "D-don't you dare leave a mark, Al L. Jones!" Al laughs, pressing harder into the older man.

And suddenly, almost as if Al _knew_, somehow, he slows down at the perfect time, Arthur whimpering and screaming as he comes, and instead of the 'confetti' – as Al so wonderfully puts it – exploding like a Fourth of July popper, it leaks out, dribbling and tentative. Arthur closes his eyes in this moment, and leans up, wrapping around Al and just nuzzling into him, breathing in the smell of blood and Neosporin and car oil, and Al recuperates the trembling hug before he comes, and Arthur just hears Al murmur his name, quietly, almost as if, if shouted to the world, the world would find it too valuable, and steal it from the two of them.

They lie in silence, Al having taken care of the used condom.

"What about Art?" Al asks in a hushed voice. Arthur thinks, and nods.

"…I like it." Al beams.

"So, it's settled! Al and Art!" Al exclaims, before his smile disappears. He doesn't know if this is going to be a permanent thing, what has happened this Thanksgiving night. '_Well_', Al considers, _'it's better than actually asking. I can see if he likes the idea by what he says.'_

In the meantime, Al looks at the ceiling, then to the opposite side of the room that Arthur isn't on.

"Oh, hell…" Arthur groans. "I swear to _God_, I am _never_ letting you top ever again." Al's eyes widen, and he looks over at his teacher, his radical English teach, Mister Kirkland.

Al smiles, and engulfs Art in a large, consuming hug.


End file.
